


The Necessary End

by zathara001



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 20:39:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5347814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zathara001/pseuds/zathara001
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Winchesters investigate odd happenings in Sleepy Hollow, they find more than they bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Necessary End

**Author's Note:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTE: It really should go without saying, but I don't own anything to do with Supernatural or Sleepy Hollow. They belong to Kripke and company, and Kurtzman/Orci and company, respectively. I'm just indulging in a bit of fantasy for a while.
> 
> OTHER NOTES: Dean's alias in this story is "Agent Hope," for Dave Hope of the band Kansas. The title comes, as so many titles do, from the Bard. Specifically, in this case, Julius Caesar, Act II scene 2. And because I'm a stickler for continuity: This story takes place after episode 1.02 of Sleepy Hollow ("Blood Moon") and before episode 1.07 ("The Midnight Ride"). For Supernatural continuity, it's sometime after episode 7.01 ("Meet the New Boss").

"What kind of name for a town is Sleepy Hollow, anyway?" Dean Winchester asked as he guided the Impala past the city limits sign at a speed that would undoubtedly attract the attention of the local cops. Reluctantly, he eased his foot off the accelerator and brought the car within five miles of the speed limit.

 

"Inaccurate, according to what I'm reading," his brother Sam answered without looking up from the laptop he consulted.

 

"What, two bodies beheaded with the wounds cauterized makes a town not sleepy?"

 

"Those are just the most recent things that have happened here. I did a little more digging, and there are tons of cold cases in this area, from unsolved murders to people that went missing and were never found. And that's not even counting the first reports about those beheadings you mentioned."

 

"First reports?" Dean scanned the road signs for one indicating a motel nearby. Finding one, he changed lanes right, preparing to exit.

 

"According to this article, two officers said they saw a headless horseman the night after the priest was killed. But later, they said it must have been a trick of the light."

 

"Some trick," Dean muttered, turning into the parking lot of a motel that looked cleaner, if quainter, than most they'd slept in. He killed the engine and studied the motel for a moment before turning to Sam. "If it's chintz overload in the rooms, we're finding someplace else."

 

#

 

A tap from the window to Captain Irving's office made Lieutenant Abbie Mills look up from the tenth revision of her report on the events of three nights ago. Normally, she would've had it completed two days ago, but there was nothing normal about recent events -- not Sheriff Corbin's death, not the arrival of Ichabod Crane, and certainly not a headless horseman riding around decapitating people -- and so Irving's "come here" gesture came as a surprisingly welcome interruption.

 

"Yes, Captain?" she said when she opened the door.

 

"Seems like we've drawn some attention," Irving said. "Federal attention."

 

Abbie followed his gaze, only then noticing the hazel-eyed, square-jawed man in a charcoal gray suit standing opposite Irving's desk. _Must've been blocked by the doorframe,_ she decided as Irving made introductions.

 

"Agent Hope, Lieutenant Abbie Mills. If you have questions about recent events, she's your best source of information. And if you want privacy, this office is your best bet. I'll leave you to it."

 

Abbie wasn't certain whether the look Irving gave her as he left, closing the office door behind him, was meant to be one of encouragement or warning, but she turned to Agent Hope, curious.

 

"I just want to ask a few questions about what happened the other night."

 

That grin probably got him a lot of answers, Abbie thought. But she'd need a little more than just charm before she'd talk to him about anything serious. "Sure. After I see your badge."

 

"Captain Irving doesn't have a problem with it."

 

Abbie gave him her best "screw you and the horse you rode in on" smile. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not Captain Irving. Badge?"

 

"Oh, I noticed. You're lots prettier." Another one of those too-sexy grins, and he flipped open his badge, letting it fall closed again almost immediately.

 

"Unh-uh. Hand it over."

 

"You serious?"

 

In response, Abbie held out her hand, palm up. She had to give him credit for not appearing visibly nervous as he slapped the leather wallet into her hand. Maybe he was the real thing, after all. She opened the wallet and slipped the ID out of the holder. _Or maybe not._

 

She didn't even have to hold it to the light to see that it was fake. She looked up at the man waiting with the cocky grin and said, "All right, _Agent_ Hope. You want to tell me who you really are and what's going on here? Or should I call the FBI and tell them someone's impersonating one of their agents?"

 

"What do you --" the man began, looking arrogantly affronted, but she held up a hand.

 

"Save it. I've seen worse fakes, but it's still a fake. Tell me the truth, now, or you'll be in jail before you know what hit you."

 

"What tipped you off? I fixed the ID number after --" he broke off, suddenly realizing he was about to say too much.

 

"Why should I help you make better fake IDs?"

 

He studied her for a long moment, then gave a small shrug. "Because I'm really good at dealing with weird shit."

 

Abbie met his gaze steadily. His confidence was arresting, not apparently feigned, but still, "I'm going to need more than that."

 

"All right," he said finally. "My name's Dean Winchester. My family's been hunting … _things_ … since I was four."

 

"Things?" Abbie asked, though she suspected she could predict what he would say.

 

"Things that go bump in the night. Things that make you look over your shoulder, only to see nothing there. Things that make shivers crawl up your spine on a sunny day. You know -- _things_. And you've got one of those things in Sleepy Hollow, running around cutting off people's heads with a super-heated sword."

 

"A broadaxe." The words were out before Abbie realized she was going to say them. They seemed to surprise Dean Winchester as much as they did her.

 

"Broadaxe, huh? That's new."

 

"New?" Abbie stared at him, uncertain what her reaction should be.

 

"It's not important. So -- your _thing_ seems to be a guy running around with a broadaxe and no head. How about we start figuring out how to stop him?"

 

"I don't think he can be stopped." How could anyone stop the Apocalypse? That thought was even more mind-bending than that the Apocalypse might actually be happening in her lifetime.

 

"I'll buy you lunch and you can tell me about it."

 

It was a tempting offer, Abbie realized -- to talk openly to someone about the headless horseman. Someone other than Ichabod Crane, she corrected silently. Crane believed, but though Abbie was starting to trust his knowledge, he wasn't one she could open up to. Their mindsets were too different.

 

#

 

Fifteen minutes later, Abbie sat across from Dean Winchester -- or Agent Hope, as she'd referred to him as they left the station; she was on rocky enough ground with Captain Irving right now, and if he'd bought Winchester's fake ID, she wasn't going to correct his mistake -- in the same diner where she'd sat the night Sheriff Corbin died.

 

 _At least it wasn't the same booth_ , she thought as Dean gestured for her to order first. "A chef salad's fine," she told Margie, the waitress who'd been working the lunch shift since before Abbie became a cop.

 

"Sure, Abbie," Margie said, and turned to Dean. "And you?"

 

Dean gave her one of those grins sure to charm a motherly type. "I'm betting you have all kinds of pie."

 

"Apple or blueberry."

 

"Apple. Ice cream?" he added with a hopeful expression, and Margie gave him a scowl that threatened to become a grin.

 

"I'll see what we can do."

 

"I bet you're used to sweet-talking every woman you meet," Abbie said.

 

"Just most." Dean leaned back in the booth and loosened the necktie he still wore. "So -- headless horseman?"

 

"Headless horseman," Abbie agreed on a frustrated exhale. "He showed up three nights ago, and killed three men. A farmer, a priest, and -- and Sheriff Corbin."

 

"Your boss," Dean said. There wasn't a lot of sympathy in his tone, but his expression conveyed the sentiment.

 

"More than a boss. A mentor." Abbie felt her lips twitch. "He's why I got into law enforcement and why I would've gone to the FBI Academy if --"

 

 _If the horseman hadn't shown up._ She couldn't bring herself to say the words, but Dean only nodded.

 

"That's how it happens, usually. Someone close to you gets hurt or killed, and you want revenge."

 

"Not revenge. Justice."

 

"Sometimes they're the same thing."

 

"They're never the same."

 

"We'll have to disagree on that," Dean said and smiled at Margie as she served their food. When Margie had gone, he turned back to Abbie, his expression more intense than she'd seen it before. "It was satisfying as hell when I killed the demon that killed my mom. Revenge, sure, but it was also just."

 

"Who are we -- who are _you_ \-- to decide justice?" Abbie demanded.

 

"Who aren't we to?" Dean countered. "Who else can?"

 

"God."

 

"Yeah, well." Dean took a bite of his pie, chewed and swallowed before adding, "The big guy and I aren't really on speaking terms." Before Abbie could pursue that, Dean met her gaze again. "What else?"

 

Her forehead creased as she took a bite of her salad. "What 'what else?'"

 

"What else happened that night? Or since?"

 

"I don't know what you mean."

 

"Be a lousy FBI agent if you can't lie better than that."

 

Abbie shifted uncomfortably, but somewhere along the way, she'd decided to be honest with him. About everything. She swallowed past the sudden dryness in her throat and said, "The horseman -- he was dressed in military uniform from the Revolutionary War. A redcoat mercenary."

 

"Huh." That appeared to surprise Dean more than anything else she'd said, but all he said was, "And?"

 

"And --" Now she got to the hard part. Ichabod. "He wasn't the only one from the Revolution who showed up that night. One of ours showed up, too."

 

"Time traveler?"

 

"So he claims." Why wasn't Dean as thrown as she had been? What kind of _things_ , as he called them, had he encountered that he took all this in stride? A demon, for one, she answered herself. If demons were real, which she wouldn't have believed four days ago.

 

Abbie took a sip of her iced tea, and a flash of a blue wool overcoat caught her eye. "That's him. The time traveler."

 

Dean followed her gaze and then surprised her by chuckling quietly. To her inquiring glance, he said, "If anyone could find a time traveler, it'd be Sammy."

 

"Sammy?" Only then did Abbie notice the man walking with Ichabod. _Some agent you'd make._

 

"My brother." Dean tapped on the window of the diner as Ichabod and Sammy drew closer.

 

Both men turned, and Abbie saw the flash of recognition in Sammy's eyes at the same time she saw confusion in Ichabod's. But both men altered their direction and came inside to take seats in the booth. Sammy shot Dean a questioning glance.

 

Dean simply shrugged. "She knows."

 

"Knows what?" Ichabod asked.

 

"That they're not really federal agents," Abbie said.

 

"How can you tell?"

 

"Fake IDs. Good ones, but still fake. Ichabod Crane, this is Dean Winchester and his brother Sammy."

 

"Sam," Sammy corrected, and offered Abbie his hand. She shook it, not at all surprised to find that he had a firm grip like his brother did.

 

"So their headless horseman showed up three nights ago. Seems to be the ghost of a mercenary from the Revolutionary War," Dean told his brother.

 

Abbie felt Ichabod's glance even before he said, "You haven't told them everything?"

 

"It's complicated," Abbie said at the same time Sam asked, "What 'everything?'"

 

"This horseman," Ichabod said, "is not merely a horseman. He's one of _the_ Horsemen."

 

Wary recognition flashed through the Winchester brothers' eyes. "What's he doing here?" Sam asked.

 

"He's a herald of the Apocalypse," Ichabod said, and Dean groaned.

 

"Again? Didn't we do this already?" he demanded of Sam.

 

"What are you talking about?" Abbie demanded.

 

Sam shook his head. "Which one is he?"

 

"Death," Ichabod answered. "He's the first, and will summon his brothers, and --"

 

"Death? Good," Dean said.

 

" _Good_?" Abbie repeated, unbelieving, as Ichabod asked, "How can that possibly be good?"

 

"You can at least talk to Death," Dean answered.

 

"Talk?" Ichabod exclaimed loudly enough to draw the attention of Margie and the handful of other diners. He ducked his head apologetically and leaned across the table toward Dean. His voice was much lower, if equally intense, when he said, "One does not simply have a chat with Death over tea."

 

"Course not." Dean grinned around a mouthful of pie. "He likes pizza."

 

#

 

"And to think that some called Mr. Franklin insane for his experiments with lightning." Ichabod glowered at Dean. They, along with Abbie and Sam, had gathered not far from the church where Reverend Knapp had been killed. The sun had set and soon it would be full night. "Surely that pales by comparison to this."

 

"This isn't the craziest idea he's had," Sam said.

 

"Thank you," Dean said, and then Sam's phrasing registered. "I think."

 

"Is that meant to be reassuring?" Ichabod asked.

 

"They have a point, Dean, however snidely they're making it." Abbie stepped forward to look up at him. "Confronting Death is not a good idea."

 

"Rather him than any of his brothers," Dean countered.

 

"You say that like you know them."

 

"We do. Kind of."

 

"What he means," Sam said, "is that we've met all four of the Horsemen. Death was the only one who --" he paused, searching for the word, finally settling on "-- cared. In a detached, older than old kind of way."

 

"This Death cares about only one thing," Ichabod said. "The Apocalypse. And you think you can stop him just by having a chat?"

 

"I think it's worth a try," Dean said. "The worst he can do is kill me again." _But this time, he doesn't have to bring you back._

 

"Again?" Abbie's expression held enough skepticism for any two people.

 

Dean waved it away. "Look, you said he was seen around here, right?"

 

"He's looking for his head," Abbie told him. "Once he gets it back -- then he can summon the others."

 

"All right, then." Dean looked past her to Sam, whose worried frown hadn't faded since they'd left the diner. His brother met his eyes, and Dean read the concern and, yes, love in them. He summoned a grin. "Back in a few."

 

"You'd better be," Sam muttered. Dean pretended not to hear as he strode into the street.

 

"Death! Yo, Death! It's Dean Winchester. We need to talk."

 

Okay, so this actually was one of his crazier ideas. Dean could admit it, if only to himself. But what else were they supposed to do? Stand around and let Death summon another apocalypse? No, thanks. He and Sammy had had enough of that the first time around. And if that wasn't the weirdest thought he'd ever had, it sure ranked near the top of the list.

 

A whuff of exhaled air made him turn, and Dean froze at the sight before him. Astride a great white horse with glowing red eyes sat a man in a Revolutionary War uniform with no head. Abbie and Ichabod had described him, of course, but still Dean swallowed involuntarily and had to force himself not to take a step back. He'd stood up to Death before -- hell, he'd bound Death to his will once -- and he'd be damned (again) if he'd flinch now.

 

"Hey, ah -- that's a new look for you. And the horse --" Dean swallowed again, managed a smile. "I liked the Caddy better." The horse snorted and pawed at the ground with one foot. "No offense," Dean reassured the animal. Then he focused on Death again. "So what's up with this? Wasn't stopping one apocalypse enough?" A thought struck him. "Or did Lucifer escape the prison, and he bound you again?"

 

The horseman sat silently -- could a headless spirit even talk? Dean wondered. _But this is Death. As old as God. He can do pretty much any damn thing he wants to._

 

When the silence stretched, Dean tried again. "Look, you told me once you don't like messing with the natural order. Well, apocalypses are the mother of all messes. So let's call this one off, okay? Just go have some pizza and call it a day."

 

The horseman reached behind him, and Dean registered the sight of a glowing-hot broadaxe half a heartbeat before his body was moving to dodge the horseman's swing. Dean rolled and came up to one knee, facing the horseman as he rounded for another pass.

 

"Okay, no pizza. Pickle chips?" Dean suggested, his gaze flicking from side to side, cataloging potential dodges and escapes. When he'd met Death before, Death had been intimidating in a civilly polite kind of way. Now, though -- even without a head, Death looked like he was out for blood. Dean just had to make sure none of that blood was his.

 

 _Easier said than done_ , he thought as Death raised the broadaxe again. But before Death even began to swing, the reports of two weapons -- shotguns, Dean identified them automatically -- echoed along the empty street.

 

Death recoiled, and Dean dove aside once more, this time in the direction of Sam and Ichabod, who were moving steadily forward, weapons at the ready. They each fired again, and Death ignored Dean, choosing instead to charge toward the other two men.

 

Dean drew his own pistol as Sam and Ichabod separated, forcing Death to choose one target or another. He chose Ichabod, Dean noted as he sighted down his .45, though even silver bullets would likely be only an annoyance. _Not to mention that shooting at Death is a good way to get yourself killed._

 

Before he could squeeze the trigger, light flashed in the night, bright like daylight. The beam caught Death's horse in the eye, and the horse shied violently. Death kept his seat, if only just, and then the light landed square on his chest, silhouetting him. Dean fired rapidly -- once, twice, three times. The light never wavered. Death started toward the source, and his horse whinnied loudly. This time, the sound seemed edged with pain. Death whirled his steed around and galloped straight at Dean.

 

Dean dove aside, but the horseman wasn't interested in pursuing him. Instead, the horseman seemed only to want to get far away from the light, quickly. He urged the horse to a gallop, and disappeared into the night.

 

Dean watched him go, sighting again down the barrel of the .45, but lowered the weapon when horse and rider disappeared. Turning back toward Sam and Ichabod, he saw Abbie running up to them, a darkened flashlight in her hand.

 

"What was that?" Sam asked.

 

"Full-spectrum bulb," she said. "Death can't stand daylight -- or, it turns out, a reasonable facsimile. But it's just going to buy us some time. It didn't hurt him."

 

"You can't hurt him," Ichabod said. "He's Death. A Horseman."

 

Ichabod glared at Dean as he said that last. Dean shrugged and holstered his weapon. "It was worth a try."

 

#

 

"That wasn't Death," Dean declared when the foursome had retreated to the motel room he and Sam had rented when they arrived. No chintz, for which he was thankful, but the "George Washington slept here" décor wasn't much better. At least the gap between the two beds was large enough for pacing, as he was doing now.

 

"Of course it was Death," Ichabod said. "The uniform is the same, the horse is the same, the tattoo on his hand -- and, lest we forget, his lack of a head is difficult to imitate."

 

"He means," Sam said, "that's not the Death we know." He pulled four bottles from the refrigerator and passed them around, offering Dean's last. "Tulpa, maybe?"

 

"What's a tulpa?" Ichabod asked. He was studying the bottle Sam had given him. Dean glanced at his own bottle, noting that Sammy had gotten Samuel Adams Boston Lager. He'd have to ask what prompted the splurge later.

 

"A being created by the power of belief," Sam was saying when Dean looked up from the bottle. "We ran into one in Texas a few years back."

 

"I don't think so. Who'd want to believe in that kind of Death?" Dean asked. Then he glanced toward Ichabod and Abbie. "No offense."

 

"How does one get the top off?" Ichabod asked. Dean grabbed the bottle from him, rested the edge of the cap on the dresser, then slammed his fist down.

 

"Normal people use a bottle opener," Abbie said, suiting action to words.

 

"I like a woman who has a bottle opener on her keyring." Dean grinned at her. She raised her bottle in salute and took a sip. Dean took a swallow of his own, catching Ichabod's concerned expression from the corner of his eye.

 

"Even assuming someone did believe in that kind of Death," Abbie began, "how many people does it take? I mean, as far as we know, there's us, and whoever's helping the apocalypse along. Can't be more than a couple of dozen people at the most."

 

"There's lots more than that," Sam said. "Remember, the apocalypse has been part of Christian belief since the beginning, and there are millions of Christians around the world. They may not believe in the specifics you're seeing, but the base belief is there, and it would lend support to the details."

 

Ichabod sputtered from where he sat in the room's lone chair. "You call this beer? I knew Samuel Adams, and he would be ashamed to know his name is being used on … this."

 

"Yeah, well, you think that's bad, you should try PBR," Dean quipped. He ignored Ichabod's puzzled expression and turned back to Sam. "I don't think it's a tulpa. But it's not our Death, either."

 

"You say that so casually," Abbie said. Unwittingly, she'd sat on the bed Dean had claimed. With almost any other woman, that fact would've sent his thoughts toward what they might do on that bed together, but tonight he could think only of the creature awaiting them in the dark. "Like he's an old friend or something."

 

"I wouldn't go that far," Sam said.

 

"Neither would I," Dean agreed. "But I understand him better than anyone else alive."

 

"How?" Ichabod demanded.

 

Dean shrugged. It wasn't something he'd ever talked about before, but if his experience might help, he had to share it. "'Cause I was him for a while. Or, I did his job for a while."

 

Abbie could barely speak. "You -- killed people?"

 

"I collected their souls when it was their time. Sucked at it, though."

 

"You never told me that." The accusation in Sam's voice was made even worse by his quiet tone.

 

"Yeah, well, it was a deal I had to make. The point is," Dean continued before any of the other three could question him further, "that I know Death, and that guy out there ain't the guy I know." He let out a breath and turned to face Ichabod and Abbie. "I'm sorry, but I'm fresh out of ideas. I mean, if we still had the Colt, then maybe --"

 

"I wouldn't count on it," Sam said, his tone returned to normal. Dean wasn't fooled, though. Sammy might've set that aside for now, in face of the imminent problem, but later, if they survived … later, there'd be questions and dodgy explanations and Dean wasn't looking forward to it.

 

"Why not?" Dean asked.

 

"Lucifer told me there are five things the Colt can't kill. He was one of them. It makes sense that the Horsemen are the other four."

 

"You guys are way too familiar with this stuff," Abbie muttered.

 

"You said your Death was … reasonable, did you not?" Ichabod asked.

 

"For being an eternal force, yeah," Dean answered.

 

"Is there a way to talk to him, rather than the Death that rides here?"

 

Dean glanced at Sam. His little brother's eyebrow twitched, barely, in an expression Dean knew well. Dean agreed.

 

"There are a couple of ways," Dean said, turning back to Abbie and Ichabod. "You get close enough to dying, a reaper'll come to collect your soul. You can ask the reaper to summon Death. They might, but they don't have to."

 

"And you might get lucky and Death will come personally for you," Sam added. "I got the impression he doesn't do that much anymore, though."

 

"You might find him at a pizza joint in Chicago, but that's iffy," Dean said. He kept his expression serious, despite the almost comical disbelieving look Abbie shot Ichabod.

 

"And … there's a ritual that binds him. He doesn't like that much, though." Sam's tone killed whatever lingering amusement Dean felt.

 

"Sounds like you know him pretty well," Abbie observed skeptically.

 

"Yeah, well." Dean shrugged. "Die enough times and you start to figure things out." He looked to Sammy again. "Thinking the ritual's the best choice this time. Something goes wrong and we get the headless bastard, at least he's bound."

 

"If things go right, we can always unbind him when he arrives." Sam was putting on a good front for the newbies, Dean thought, but he knew his brother well enough to know that Sammy was nervous as hell. _Makes two of us,_ he thought.

 

"What, exactly, do you need to prepare for this ritual?" Ichabod asked.

 

#

 

All told, it took them three days to gather the components of the spell. It would've taken longer, Abbie thought, if it weren't for FedEx's ridiculously expensive priority overnight service and the Winchesters' apparent unconcern for the price they paid for the components.

 

Finally, though, they set up the ritual in the catacombs beneath the police station. Dean had originally suggested her place, with a flirty grin, but Abbie recoiled at allowing Death, any Death, into her apartment. When Ichabod suggested the catacombs as an alternative, the Winchesters just shrugged.

 

Now the four gathered around the table Sam had set up to hold the ritual accoutrements. Dean glanced around once more. "We ready?"

 

Ichabod nodded, once. Abbie checked the full-spectrum flashlight she held, and said, "Let's do this."

 

Dean let out a breath -- the first sign he'd given that he might be nervous, too, Abbie thought -- and used the knife he carried to prick the thumb of his left hand. Squeezing a few drops of blood into the bowl that contained the components, he said, "Invoco Mortem. Te in mea potestate. Defixi. Nunc et in aeternum."

 

"I call upon Death," Ichabod translated softly. A shiver struck Abbie's spine, and she tried to ignore it. "Thee for my power. Fastened. Now and for eternity."

 

When he finished, there was nothing but silence. Abbie shifted nervously. Had the ritual somehow failed?

 

"He likes to make an entrance," Dean said. Abbie thought he meant it as reassurance, but she gripped her flashlight tighter, just in case.

 

She kept scanning the room, her gaze going from shadow to dusty ruin to shadow and back, but even so the dry voice startled her.

 

"You've gone from amusing to annoying, Dean. Do you want that trend to continue?"

 

Abbie spun, leveling her Glock and flashlight at the man who'd appeared across the room from her. He wore a black trenchcoat over a charcoal gray suit with a white shirt and gray patterned tie. Not as tall as Ichabod or even Dean, still he radiated a presence that commanded awe and respect, rather than the sheer terror she felt facing the headless horseman.

 

"Sorry," Dean said, and even his natural bravado seemed a bit subdued. "But we had to make sure it was you we summoned."

 

"As opposed to whom?" Death asked.

 

"Some headless guy riding around at night." Dean crossed to the table that had become their temporary altar and scattered the remnants of the binding spell. Abbie thought she saw Death relax, if only slightly. Then Dean picked up a takeout bag.

 

"More pickle chips?"

 

"Better. Sweet potato tots. They're awesome." Dean offered the bag to Death, who reached into it with one hand and withdrew a tot.

 

"You eat." Abbie hadn't realized she said the words aloud until Death looked at her with a look of amused tolerance.

 

"For all his faults, Dean does find some excellent food." Death ate the tot slowly, appearing to savor it. "Not bad." Then he turned to Dean. "Now that the pleasantries have been observed, why am I here? Your little upstart angel giving you troubles again?"

 

"Cass? No, he's fine," Sam said. "But these people --" he nodded toward Abbie and Ichabod "-- are having trouble with a headless horseman."

 

"He's Death," Ichabod said. "Here to retrieve his head and summon his fellow horsemen to start the apocalypse."

 

"Which we already stopped," Dean put in. "So what gives? You having a little memory problem? Not uncommon at your age."

 

"Dean!" Sam's remonstrance came in time with Abbie's gasp and Ichabod's stare.

 

Death ignored them, instead focusing on Dean. "I've told you before that there is a natural order to things."

 

"And Sammy and I are violations of that order because we don't stay dead. I remember."

 

"It is not simply human lives which have a natural order. Everything does."

 

"Everything," Ichabod repeated. It wasn't really a question, Abbie thought. "Dogs, cats, horses …"

 

"Worlds," Death added. His calm tone made the word more chilling, and Abbie swallowed.

 

"Worlds end?" she asked.

 

Death studied her, and she was surprised to find that she didn't feel afraid of him, the way she did the headless Death. This was a Death who could, she decided, come with friendly care. "You're an educated woman. Do you truly need me to tell you that? Stars die, and therefore worlds die, and even galaxies and universes. Just like people and animals. Only the timing is different."

 

"Of all the wonders that I yet have heard," Ichabod said softly, "it seems to me most strange that men should fear; seeing that death, a necessary end, will come when it will come."

 

"What?" Dean asked.

 

"Shakespeare," Ichabod answered. " _Julius Caesar._ " Then he paused. "Are you aware of Shakespeare in this time?"

 

"We are," Sam answered. "But our education was … unusual. And beside the point." He turned back to Death. "You're saying that we didn't really stop the apocalypse?"

 

"You stopped your apocalypse," Death told him.

 

"How many apocalypses are there?" Dean demanded.

 

"As many as it takes. Until someone fails, and this world ends. If that's all --"

 

"One more thing," Dean said. "That headless guy -- is he really you? I mean, if we'd left you bound, would that prevent this apocalypse?"

 

"Still the overblown sense of your own importance, I see." Death stepped closer to Dean, looked up at him. "This is not your apocalypse to stop, Dean. Go back to doing what you do, and leave this one to those who are called to it."

 

Abbie felt her spine straightening as Death turned away from Dean to regard her and Ichabod. "I do wish you luck. This world is remarkably entertaining, and I'd not like to see it end so soon."

 

Then he was gone, as though he'd never been there -- and the sweet potato tots with him.

 

#

 

"That didn't go as well as I'd hoped," Dean said. He was standing with Abbie beside the Impala, the day after their conversation with Death. He and Sam were getting ready to leave, to go back to their normal lives, though Abbie was beginning to wonder if normal had any meaning anymore.

 

"Abbie?" Dean's prompt brought her back from her momentary reverie, and she gave a philosophical shrug.

 

"It's more information than we had, even if it's still not a lot." And not useful, either. She didn't say those words aloud, but she suspected Dean heard them nonetheless.

 

"Yeah." Dean blew out a breath. "I hate losing."

 

Abbie frowned. "You didn't lose."

 

"We didn't win, either. Same thing."

 

"Not even almost the same thing. There's still time. Ichabod and I can still stop the Apocalypse." She hoped. No, stop, she chided herself. She had to believe, to know they could stop it. Otherwise, they wouldn't have been chosen as the two witnesses.

 

"You damned well better." Dean's tone was somewhere between serious and teasing. "Otherwise I'll find you after and kick your ass."

 

That was sincere, for sure, Abbie realized, and had to laugh. "Yeah, well, I'll deserve that and a lot worse if we fail."

 

"I wish I could help. But then, when it was me and Sammy's turn, I kept wishing it was someone else's responsibility." Dean gave a half-chuckle. "Weird."

 

"Human. Which we all are."

 

"I suppose." Dean straightened from where he leaned against the Impala. "Look, maybe I can't help directly, but if things get bad … if you need someone to talk to, someone who's been there -- sort of," he amended "-- you call me, okay?"

 

It wasn't the smoothest offer she'd ever heard, but then Dean Winchester struck her as the kind who'd always be a little rough around the edges. Even so, the offer made her feel lighter, as though the burden she carried had shifted to a more comfortable position.

 

"I'll do that," she promised. Impulsively, she stepped forward to hug him. His arms closed around her, and for a moment she could pretend that all was right in the world.

 

"Take care of yourself," Dean murmured against her hair. She nodded and then stepped back.

 

"You, too." Abbie frowned as a question occurred to her. "What are you going to do now?"

 

"Same thing we always do. Hunt things. Save people." There was that cocky grin again, and Abbie rolled her eyes. Then he called over his shoulder to where Sam and Ichabod stood talking quietly enough that she couldn't hear them. "Sammy! Let's get a move on. There's a poltergeist down in Jersey needs to be salted and burned."

 

She hugged Sam, too, when he got close enough. "Good luck," she said.

 

"You, too."

 

With a final round of farewells, the Winchesters climbed into the Impala. Ichabod stood next to her as they watched the car recede into the distance.

 

"Do you suppose there are many like them?" Ichabod asked.

 

"Besides us, you mean?"

 

Ichabod glanced at her, obviously surprised she'd made that comparison. But he recovered quickly. "Yes. Besides us."

 

"I don't know," Abbie said. "But however many there are, I hope it's enough. I hope we're enough."

 

"We will be, Leftenant. We will be."

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on FF.net back in December 2013. I'm re-posting it here as part of the ongoing, sporadic effort to get all my work available on both platforms.


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